~*~Ethereal Winter~*~
by lener
Summary: The Dark forces of Sauron are massing. Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli head to Mordor, and in Rivendell, Arwen is distressed. Then only one of the three returns... Will an unforbidden love spring up?
1. Prologue

Ethereal Winter

            Disclaimer: I don't own The Lord of The Rings. Though I wished I owned the actors and actresses… ::winks:: 

Prologue:

                   Winter in Rivendell brought a sense of elation to the much younger Elven folk, but the rest of the elves suppressed the stirring unrest with silent stoicism. The ominous threat of the Dark Lord Sauron still revealed its presence once in a while to the inhabitants of Rivendell, in the form of the black shadowy fog that veiled the Misty Mountains.

                   The last autumn leaf drifted slowly down to the ground on the placid breeze, a radiant tint of red and gold, its sharp edges glinting in the fast fading sunlight. It rarely snowed in Rivendell, and this winter showed no sign of breaking the 'tradition'. The wind was icy and went blustering about the city, seeping through cracks in the closed doors, chilling the inhabitants to the bone. The skies seemed darker than usual, and great billowing clouds rolled past each day. But other than that, Rivendell was just the same Elven city in winter's cold grasp.

                   The elves still went about their daily work, but most folk kept indoors where merry flames spread warmth and a dose of cheer through the large halls of the Elven homes. 

                   There was one Elf, however, who spent most of her time out of doors, wandering through the forests, though bare of leaves the trees were. The forest had been like her home, and being with the trees and hearing their whispery voices call faintly to each other seemed soothing to her tensed nerves. For it was Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond who wandered the forests at unearthly times in the night, clad in an Elven cloak that blended into a deep hue of emerald. 

                   Tonight was a night no different from any other. The moon hung like a great vivid orb in the sky, shrouded by wispy black clouds, and a gusty bought of wind breezed through the Misty Mountains, wailing past the deep valley set in its foothills and into Rivendell. 

                   Arwen shuddered and drew the cloak tighter around her slender shoulders. Her dark hair strayed in a sudden wind, and the wind seemed to catch the ends of her silver and blue mantle. Wind and Elven fabric danced an elegant waltz in the cold air. But Arwen's fair features were filled with fretfulness and foreboding, such that the colour of her skin seemed a shade of deathly white, and her arms now hung flaccidly at her side. 

                   Arwen, though distraught as she was, still seemed so exquisite. There she stood, flanked by the tall thin trees that gleamed silver in the night. A sliver of moonlight shone through a rift in the trees, lighting up Arwen's face, her brown, perfectly domed eyebrows and her full pinkish lips.           

                   The heart-shaped face of the Elven Princess was looking towards the West, where erratic streaks of brilliant orange beams illuminated the shadowy sky. Then she heard it, barely audible but yet still clear; the monotonous drumbeats seemed unable to keep in pace with the rapid palpitating of the elf's heart. 

                   Arwen lifted her chin towards the darkening sky and spoke. But even as the words departed from her lips, the wind took them, rising high into the cold air, and carried them off into the night so that all Arwen had said was merely a whisper, a prayer. ~_Estel… Estel…~_

Arwen let fall her chin, and a pearly tear eased out from her eye, making its way trickling down her colourless cheeks and finally, trembling at the edge of her chin, fell, gradually at first but then gaining speed every second so that it hit the soft earth with barely a splash. 

                   Then slowly she turned away from the forest, and stumbled blindly back to the palace of majestic white marble etched vividly against the blue backdrop of Rivendell. 

                                                                                               ~*~          

                   The sun was setting now, and with failing strength it cast its feeble rays out over Middle-Earth, dyeing the sky a flaming red and orange. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli set camp under a wide spreading tree. Gimli was presently engaged in the task of gathering firewood for a little blaze, and Aragorn crouched low on the ground scrutinizing what an ignorant eye would have overlooked, bits of trampled and soiled grass. Only Legolas had nothing to do. He stood with his back to the setting sun, and peered into the distance intently. Then Legolas saw the faint flicker of that same orange beam he had been following for weeks now. 

                   Legolas felt someone come up from behind him, but he did not turn around.

                   "Still there?" Aragorn asked, putting one hand to his somewhat bristly chin and rubbing it thoughtfully. A few strands of his wild, unkempt dark hair were matted to his face, and he brushed them off impatiently. His cheeks seemed sunken and his eyes seemed hollow, their exciting sparkle almost fading into oblivion.

                   Legolas turned around and caught a glimpse of Gimli bending over a pile of dried twigs and undergrowth, then faced the direction in which he had been looking at. "I do not know what it means. Yet I feel something. Evil nonetheless. But Aragorn, we must go further. We have no other choice," he said, and sighed as he spoke. Never before had he felt so weary, so old. 

                   Aragorn cast a glance in Legolas's direction. The elf was clad in mossy green and tree-bark brown, and the fine layers of his clothing blew gently in the breeze. Legolas's quiver was slung over his back, and Aragorn perceived that his bow was clutched tightly in his fist. Aragorn had never seen Legolas so tensed before. Usually Legolas was the only cheerful member of their company, treading the Earth with his light feet and occasionally bursting into a jovial song until Gimli growled at him to stop. 

                   "When will we get to Mordor?" Legolas broke through the awkward silence at last, turning his head a fraction to look at Aragorn. "From here to Mordor is 12 leagues if we travel on foot, starting at dawn tomorrow," Aragorn did the mental calculation in his mind. Legolas stared back in the direction of Mordor. "Watch the evil no more, Legolas. You must get some rest if we are to start out at dawn. See! Gimli has done so!" Aragorn jerked his head in the direction of the dwarf, and in the fading light Legolas could just make out his bulky friend curled up contentedly beside the burning fire.

                   Legolas managed a small, strained smile. "Then I will do just so. For even Elves need their share of sleep," he gave a high tinkling laugh that sounded like bells and strode briskly over to the fire. He curled up beside the fire opposite Gimli, and very soon the sound of Gimli's intense snoring and Legolas's deep breathing filled Aragorn's ears.   

                   Now Aragorn stared at the moon in the sky, and let his thoughts wander. Then the image of Arwen swam into his thoughts, and Aragorn felt his heart ache. He saw the russet tresses, her enrapturing elvish smile, the tender feel of her hand in his… 

                   Then suddenly the vision dissipated as a loud shot erupted into the air, breaking the peaceful silence. Aragorn started, and his hand reached instinctively for Anduril at his side. Legolas sprang up from the ground, reaching for his precious bow that lay at his feet. Gimli muttered incomprehensibly and rolled over, then opened one eye, and, seeing his two counterparts in combat position, scrambled up from the ground, axe in hand. 

                   "What was that sound?" Legolas whispered. But the night air was silent now, and his voice seemed unbearably loud in the stillness of the twilight. Gimli, furious that his precious sleep had been interrupted, glared around at the bushes surrounding the tree, and opened his mouth to say something.

                   "Shhh…" Aragorn hushed the indignant dwarf. "Listen," was the only other word he said.

                   The three strained their ears to listen. Legolas was the first to hear the sound. It was a rustle, a rustle in the bushes behind Aragorn. The elf motioned the ranger, who took a step back and reached out to push aside the vegetation. Legolas reached behind him and pulled out an arrow. Long, sleek and polished, it gleamed an organic green in the patch of moonlight that shone on it.

                   With a _whish _and a _shoom, _the arrow from Legolas's bow sped through the air. It crashed into the bushes and a split second later there came an agonizing cry that rang loud into the night, followed by a hollow sounding thump. Aragorn sprang forward nimbly and pushed the bushes apart, exposing the unfortunate victim. 

                   An orc lay on the ground, eyes wide open. It's scrawny, black withered hands still clutched desperately at the arrow, in what looked like a fruitless attempt to pull the weapon out. The orc was clad in a shirt of dirty leather and hairy black breeches. Over this tunic was a coat of ring-mail, and a black cap with an iron rim over its shrunken looking head. Aragorn stepped forward, his eyes brushing over the orc. "It's dead," he announced. Legolas, now standing next to Gimli, leaned to his friend and whispered, "One for me." This statement caused the dwarf to grow an autumn scarlet in the face in mock anger.

                   Then suddenly Legolas whirled around and sent another arrow flying into the bushes behind him. A loud wail rang out, and then a clunk. "Orcs! All around!" Legolas cried anxiously as he let fly another green arrow at a quaking bush ten paces away. It emitted a loud squawk and then a bony green hand fell out of the bush.   

                   Then suddenly, bright round eyes popped out from behind all the bushes, exposing leering and slobbering orc faces, all greedy for the taste of fresh meat… Aragorn gave a sharp intake of breath, and Gimli growled. The orcs charged, hundreds of them swarmed out from behind bushes, brandishing clubs and daggers that shone menacingly. 

                   The trio sprang into action. Aragorn rushed forward and gave a mighty blow, decapitating an orc swiftly. Gimli gave an almighty roar and his axe silenced two orcs at once. "Two for me!" Gimli called to Legolas; they were standing back to back with each other. Arrows were flying in all directions, and Legolas's hands were moving so fast they seemed just a beige blur. "You have to try better than that Gimli son of Gloin! For I have slain twenty already!" he cried cheerfully as his arrow stroke another ill-fated orc, who fell silently. 

                   Very soon bodies of dead and grievously wounded orcs littered the ground; the remaining orcs had fled off in the direction of the forest. Gimli lay panting on the ground, bloodied axe by his side. He had slain in total thirty-eight orcs, and had beaten Legolas by two orcs. By now the light of the moon had grown faint, soon to be replaced by the burning splendour of the morning sun. Aragorn stood upright and rigid, tracing the best route for which they were to take. Legolas was gathering arrows to fill his quiver, which had only ten arrows left to hold.

                   The sun came up with deathly silence, dispersing dark shadows and lighting up the murky spaces in between the forest. But no matter how bright her light was she could not vanquish the other dark forces that had been sent by the evil one, Sauron. 

                   "We best be leaving soon," Aragorn finally said as he turned to the other two. "The Dark Lord's forces are massing; the Ringbearer is left with barely a chance now." 

                   Legolas stood up and packed a last arrow into his now full quiver. He gave Aragorn a grim smile and nodded understandingly. Gimli picked up his axe and wiped it on the ground, leaving smears of orc blood. Then the robust dwarf stood up, looking slightly refreshed.

                                                                                               ~*~

                   The heat from the midday sun beat down upon the backs of the three travellers, causing sweat to trickle down into their garments. It felt as though water was continuously being poured down into their shirts. Uneasiness had taken over Aragorn, and he seemed to look back down the path they were taking every few seconds.

                   Legolas looked at the tall figure of the man beside him, his face weathered by life's experiences, and already signs of the years of toil and wandering in the mountains were etched on his face. Aragorn was clad in a suit of dark brown, and his sword Anduril hung at his side, occasionally brushing against the soft fabric of his pants. Legolas perceived the taut muscles on Aragorn's jaw and the faraway look in his eyes and realised that he too was thinking about the consequences of their actions.   

                   Mordor was a vile place, a dying land where it was rumoured that nothing could grow there. Seeds that somehow found their way to Mordor shrivelled up within a day and grew no more. 

                   Once Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli ventured into Mordor, they would have to fight to the end to get out again. The forces of the Dark Lord were not endless but yet they were not few either, and hope grew dim in the hearts of the three. Legolas felt his spirit dampen, and he began to sing softly to himself, his clear voice sounded so soothing and calm that even Gimli did not bother stopping the elf.

                                      _In western lands beneath the Sun_

_                                      The flowers may rise in Spring,_

_                                      The trees may bud, the waters run_

_                                      The merry finches sing._

_                                      Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night_

_                                      And swaying beeches bear_

_                                      The Elven-stars as jewels white_

_                                      Amid their branching hair._

_                                      Though here at journey's end I lie_

_                                      In darkness buried deep,_

_                                      Beyond all towers strong and high,_

_                                      Beyond all mountains steep,_

_                                      Above all shadows rise the Sun_

_                                      And stars forever dwell:_

_                                      I will not say the Day is done,_

_                                      Nor bid the stars farewell._

_                                      In western lands beneath the Sun_

_                                      The rivers may flow deep,_

_                                      The children sing, the horses run_

_                                      As wild and free can be._

_                                      Or maybe 'tis a lovely day_

_                                      And bright the sunshine splays,                             _

_                                      For the sky is never grey, and naught_

_                                      can make my heart not stay._

Legolas's voice held the note loud and clear, and there came a loud sniff. Gimli was using his scraggly red beard to wipe off a tear from his face. Upon seeing this, Aragorn let out a little laughter, Legolas smiled and offered some _lembas _to Gimli. For a while the mood was lightened, but only for a while. 

                   With their hearts floating high and chests held out proudly, Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli carried on with their journey, to fulfill their ultimate purpose and what came after that none of them quite knew. What would happen to them along the way they did not really care. For they were a team; united against one Evil, one Dark Lord. 

                   And the two tall figures and the gawkily stunted one made their way, and the sun followed them past the majestic hills, across the verdant plains and into dense forests and reeking mires, all the way its brilliant rays shining out across Middle-Earth.     

**Author's Note: That's it for the prologue! Next chapter coming soon! **


	2. Battle At Mordor

Ethereal Winter Battle at Mordor 

Disclaimer: I don't own The Lord of The Rings. J. R. R. Tolkien does. Lucky him.

                   The city of Mordor lay stagnant and silent in the luminosity of the dawn. A great grey mist hung about the city, and the tops of the towers strong and high were encircled with black fog. High up in the sky the screeches of the patrolling winged Nazgul could be heard from miles away, but not a speck of them could be seen in the sky. 

                                      ~*~

For five days now Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli had traveled through the thick foliage and though thoroughly fatigued, they still traipsed along in the stifling heat always on guard for passing bands of orcs. At about noontime, the company came to the outskirts of Mordor. It was dark and dreary, though the sun was shining brilliantly. The wind still blew, but in Mordor the air seemed dormant and chilly. Mount Doom loomed in a distance, its feet in ashen ruin, its huge cone rising to dizzy heights. There it was in smouldering slumber, yet still as dangerous as a sleeping beast. 

Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn stood for a while gazing at Mount Doom with mingled loathing and awe. Between them and the smoking mountain seemed like a barren desert, gutted and ruined. Under the lifting skirts of the bleak sky, dim light leaked into Mordor like pale morning through a grimy prison window. 

"We shall set camp here and get rest until tomorrow. Then we shall ride to the Black Gate," said Aragorn. Then Aragorn drew Anduril, holding it glittering in the sun. "You shall not be sheathed again until the last battle is fought." Then Legolas and Gimli lay down to sleep after drinking the last of their water, and Aragorn sat down beside them to keep watch all through the night, Anduril in his lap. Looking out into the night sky, Aragorn fingered the jewel pendant that hung around his neck. It seemed out of place, cleverly concealed within the grimy folds of Aragorn's rusty green and brown shirt.   

The next day, Aragorn led Legolas and Gimli to two great mounds of loose stones and earth. Below down Mordor lay like a great swamp of reeking mud and a putrid stench rose up with black steam from great fissures in the ground. 

"Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Justice shall be done upon him. For he has wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands. Therefore the King of Gondor demands that he should atone for his evils, then depart forever. Come forth!" Gimli's vociferous voice filled the air and carried off to the Black Gate. 

At first there was silence, and the echo of the dwarf's voice lingered awkwardly in the air, then diminished into a whisper. The Black Gate remained shut tightly, and no movement from within was heard or seen by the three. Gimli cast an inquiring glance at Aragorn, who nodded to him. And just as Gimli was about to shout their summon again, lo! The Black Gate opened and an army of orcs came trooping forth; at the head of the host a tall shape mounted on a black steed rode out proudly. The rider was garbed entirely in black, and the hood or his robe was pulled low over the eerie, revolting skeleton-like face, and in the socket of his eyes and nostrils there burned a sinister flame. He was no Ringwraith, but a living man. No one knew his name and he himself had forgotten it. But in the inhabitants that feared the Dark Lord in the lands near and far called him 'The Mouth of Sauron'.

Behind this Messenger rose a big fighting-orc, holding a single black banner bearing the token of the red Eye. And behind the leader of the orcs, ranks upon ranks of neatly lined orc soldiers eyed Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn with their leering eyes. 

"So it is the King of Gondor who seeks his end?" the Messenger eyed the looked the warriors up and down, then turned his vile face towards Aragorn and sneered. "It seems that in the land of Gondor any peasant can become a king." Gimli, beside Aragorn, sprang forward with a cry of outrage. Aragorn thrust out an arm to prevent the dwarf from going any other, but he could not stop the Messenger's ice stare that fell on Gimli. "And midgets can be of service to the King?" was the cutting statement that issued from the slash across the mask that served as a mouth. Gimli's face burned as red as his hair, and he stood there, barely reaching the head of the horse before him. Legolas laid a warm hand on his shoulder. A second later the Messenger's gaze fell upon the elegant elf. "And elves befriend midgets…" Legolas said naught in answer, but took the other's eye and held it. Soon, though Legolas said no word or drew no weapon, the other quailed stumbled back as if menaced with a blow.                                

                   Then the Messenger laughed no more. The mask of a face was contorted with bewilderment and fury. He gazed at the hard faces of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, and then fear overcame his wrath. Leaning forward, he spat vulgarly on the earth just a few inches from where Aragorn's stood, then with a loud cry he turned is steed with curt precision and charged back to the Black Gate. But even before they reached the gate, Sauron sprang his trap. 

                   The Black Gate opened once again, and blasts of horns filled the air. Drumbeats thundered from the tops of the towers, the monotonous sounds chilling the hearts of the three with every beat. Then swarms of orcs, in addition to the small band that had trooped out with the Messenger came streaming out the gate, the dust from beneath the hooves of black horses rising up and smothering the air. 

Upon one hill Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn stood back to back, anticipating the attack. Aragorn had Anduril drawn and glinting in the sun. Gimli raised his axe up high, the sharp blade poised to strike. Legolas had already placed an arrow in his bow, and was aiming for the first line of orcs. There were a few thousand orcs, but it was not the full force of Sauron. 

The first waves of orcs rushed forward, yelling barbarically and stampeding towards their targets. Aragorn sprang forward and hacked away vigorously, black and red blood spurted into the air as the orc flew into pieces. One of its daggers soared into the air, and as it came down Aragorn caught it swiftly and flung it directly at another orc. The dagger struck with lethal accuracy, and the orc collapsed to the ground, dead. Sensing something come up behind him, Aragorn turned Anduril and stabbed backwards. Sure enough, the tip of his sword came into contact with an orc. There was an ear-piercing screech, which faded into the air as Aragorn pulled his sword out. 

Gimli watched the seemingly endless flow of orcs and then realised that the front lines of orcs had already reached the mound on which they were standing. Then Gimli heard the whine of an arrow from Legolas's bow, and he sprang into action. His axe cleaved into an orc, and Gimli watched satisfied as the initial leery expression changed to one of sheer agony, then the orc slid onto the ground, the life completely sapped from its crumpled body. Two orcs lunged themselves onto the robust dwarf, catching him off guard. Gimli shook himself forcefully, and felt the two orcs fly into the air. They hit the trunk of a decaying oak and slumped down onto the earth. 

Legolas felt the arrow depart from his bow, and traced its curving course as it sliced through the air and finally embedded itself firmly into the chest of a fighting-orc. The orc gave a deafening cry and fell back upon its comrades, toppling backwards and burying a number of its comrades beneath it. Another orc advanced towards the tall elf, twisted dagger drawn and ready to strike. It came bearing down upon the elf, and as Legolas shot another arrow into the air, he saw not the looming danger behind him. Suddenly, perchance some Elvish instinct had played its magic, Legolas whirled around and darted left just as the orc thrust its dagger forward. Whipping out the long white knife that hung on his green belt, Legolas stabbed forwards, and black blood surged out from the orc as it fell to the ground.

"Alas… the untainted knife has been stained," Legolas mourned sadly, gazing at his soiled weapon. 

                                                          ~*~

                   Morning had come again, and the wispy grey clouds moved apart to let the minute rays of light down onto Mordor. To Sam it seemed that day in Mordor was no different from night. The sky was still tinted black, and the dismal shadowy figures concealed from sight within the deep forests still lurked about ghostly. It seemed like a long time since Sam had rescued his Master from the clutches of evil Shagrat and the orcs, but in truth it had only been a day. 

                   The two hobbits had hidden in the forest just after their escape, and had spent the whole night struggling to put some distance between the tower and them. Finally, exhausted, starving and thirsting, Sam and Frodo staggered into a clearing. Tall ferns overgrew the ground, and hidden beneath them lay the moldering trunks of fallen trees. Then fatigue overcame them, and Frodo gave a deep wheezing gasp of air before collapsing to the ground, and there he lay like a dead thing. Sam stooped down beside his Master, and panic seized him upon seeing Frodo's pallid face and sunken cheeks. 

                   Sam gently took Frodo by the shoulders and moved him so that he was lying against a boulder. Frodo's face was etched with uneasiness, but he slept all the same, his hands clenched in fists. Sam knew that among all the pains his Master bore, the increasing weight of the Ring was the worst. It was a burden to his body and a torment to his mind. For the few nights they'd been together, Sam had not failed to notice how Frodo's left hand would often be raised as if to ward of a blow or to shield himself. And sometimes his right hand would creep up to his breast, but then slowly, as his will repossessed mastery, it would be withdrawn.   

                   Sam gave one look at Frodo, then grabbed his almost empty water bottle and walked out of the clearing. Sam had not gone a very long way before he heard a far off sound that brought him to a halt. Unbelievable but, unmistakable. The gentle trickling of water. Sam moved a few paces to the right, and there, water flowed down a sharp and narrow crevice. The last remnants, perhaps, of sweet rain that fell on sunlit meadows, but unfortunate to fall upon the dying land of Mordor and in due course wander fruitless in the dust. 

                   Without weighing the consequences, Sam dove forward and pressed his mouth to the trickle of water. Under normal circumstances it would have tasted vile to the hobbit, but in this expiring land it seemed heavenly to him. The water was cold, oily and acrid at the same time. Sam drank his fill and then placed his water bottle where his mouth had been just a few seconds ago. The water came dripping down into the container. The first few drops hit the bottom with loud 'plop's, but as the liquid filled the container it made light dripping sounds. 

                   When Sam's water bottle had been filled, he capped it tightly and turned to go back into the clearing where Frodo lay asleep. Their food supply was meager but adequate, and Sam knew what they needed most was water. There were still the leftovers from Faramir in his pack; a few dried fruits and nuts. And there were still four wafers of _lembas_, the Elven waybread. 

                   Suddenly, something caught Sam's eye, and his eyes glanced right just in time to see a petite black figure dart through the trees and away into the forest. Heart palpitating violently, Sam thrashed back to the clearing, only to find Frodo still sleeping against the boulder peacefully. Sam reached his Master and shook the hobbit awake gently. "Mr. Frodo Sir, I got us some water!" Sam informed the dazed hobbit. Frodo's eyes snapped open at once, and his face lit up at the mere mention of 'water'. "Water, Sam? Water, did you say? Where Sam? Give it to me at once!" he rasped out, his parched throat burning inside him. "Yes Mr. Frodo Sir," Sam readily tipped the water bottle into Frodo's open mouth, and watched as the slightly greyish waterfall into his Master's mouth. 

                   Frodo drank almost half the contents of the water bottle, the two hobbits finished the food Faramir had gave them. The dried food made them thirst even more, and the water level in Sam's water bottle had gone down by a considerable amount. 

                   Sam glanced at Frodo's contented face. "Mr. Frodo Sir, I fear that Gollum's been following us again," he picked his words carefully. Frodo stared long and hard at Sam, then sighed heavily and turned his head away. "Yes, I've seen him too, Sam, often at night. Those two yellow eyes have been with us ever since we escaped the Tower of Cirith Ungol," he murmured to Sam. "Somehow Gollum must have picked up our trail and followed us." 

                   Sam shuddered, disgusted at the thought of the creature. "We should have gotten rid of him back then," he muttered, fingering the edge of Sting, which was in the hilt at his side. Frodo gave a defeated sigh. "We shan't dwell on that topic Sam. I'm too tired to think of anything- even Gollum!" Sam's cheeks coloured faintly at this remark. Frodo saw how uncomfortable Sam was, and he decided to change the subject. "Come on, Sam. You'd better have a rest- you've been travelling all day and night. Here, take a sip of water, it'll quench your thirst," Frodo grabbed the water bottle and tipped it into Sam's open mouth. Indeed the young hobbit looked fatigued, his face drained of colour. 

                   "I'll… I'll just take a ten-minute nap, Mr. Frodo. We have to get a move on soon. Will you rouse me then, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked as he leaned his head against the hard, coarse surface of the boulder. Frodo smiled gently and nodded. "Of course I will, Sam. Do get some rest now," his voice sank to a whisper as Sam's eyes began to close. His head drooped upon his own chest, Sam slept serenely.

                   Frodo got to his feet and fingered the Ring at his breast. He could feel it- the cold hard metal through his tunic, and just the sheer touch of it made him loath it with all his little heart. But yet somehow the Ring drew him closer, and Frodo found himself starting to get the Ring out from his pocket. 

                   "No, Frodo Baggins. You won't!" a voice in his head reproved him; his grip on the Ring loosened and Frodo's hand dropped limply down to his side. Pent up tears threatened to surge out from deep inside, and Frodo had to muffle a sniff. How _could _he have almost succumbed to the temptation of the Evil? Frodo looked up into the dirty sky. To the North, great columns of smoke and twisting fires rose into the sky, entwining with each other. Frodo quailed deep inside, wondering what fate awaited him on top of Mount Doom. 

                   The gentle and soothing snoring from Sam snapped Frodo back to his senses. It had been past ten minutes already, and it was time for Sam to be woken up. 

                                                          ~*~

Arwen gazed out into the sky as the fiery sun sank low beneath the top of the green peaks of the faraway hills, the clouds shining a loud orange and red. But still, a web of grey shadows weaved itself into the magnificent sunset. And for Arwen too, a veil of misery was interlaced in her heart, and a seed of doubt had begun to spring up in her heart, threatening to overpower the shoots of hope. 

                   The Elven princess stood rigid, staring out from one of the terraces over the loud-flowing River Bruinen. Her pale hands, smooth and flawless, rested gingerly on the polished metal railing. The crimson light from the sunset was reflected in her bright Elven eyes, making them shine a deep red.

                   The light of the cool winter evening was now glowing faintly in the valley, and the noise of bubbling waters resounded through the valley. Arwen looked up into the darkened sky and at the sinister glow of the far away fires ablaze in Mordor. The moon was full tonight, and it hovered high above Rivendell. The white terraces, intricately designed with sinuous Elvish patterns.

                   Out of the darkness, Arwen sensed someone come up from behind her. She glanced askance at the tall figure, who stood next to her. Dark hair the colour of the shadows of the twilight resembled hers, and the Elf next to her had a circlet of silver set upon his dark head. Clear grey eyes the colour of a misty morning peered into the distance, and in them was the light like the light of the stars. The face of the Elf was neither old nor young, and it was Elrond, Arwen's father himself, whom the Elf princess was looking at.

                   "Tell me whither," Elrond said, his eyes held a fixed point in the distance, and he did not look upon Arwen, "Whither you are thinking of the mortal Aragorn." Arwen's pale cheeks flushed a delicate tinge of pink, and she looked away, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her pointed ear. "He is in danger," she whispered, struggling to fight the urge to release the pent up emotions churning inside her. Arwen felt her face heat up, and her vision blurred and the tears that were welling up in her eyes threatened to flow down her wind-kissed cheeks. 

                   Elrond seemed able to discern her feelings, for he looked away and said simply, "An army of elves and a few men will be sent to Mordor. I promise you Aragorn will not fight alone." 

                   Arwen looked up, startled. But she added, "Aragorn does not go to battle alone. He has with him noble Gimli son of Gloin and Prince Legolas of the Mirkwood Realm." Arwen's voice had strengthened, and she lifted her chin up in a show of confidence. 

                   Elrond turned to his daughter and met her grey eyes. "Of course," he replied. Then suddenly Arwen was clinging to him, her arms wrapped around his neck, sobbing. Not heart-brokenly, but happily. The corners of Elrond's lips lifted slightly in a rueful smile, and gingerly he reached out to stroke his daughter's hair tenderly.

                                                          ~*~

                   Aragorn felt the dreaded fatigue creeping stealthily into his limbs. The ground was littered with the corpses of orcs, probably about two thousand orcs. But the stream of them from the Black Gate was endless. 

                   Bands of orcs would charge towards the three weary warriors, only to be shot down by Legolas' flying arrows. The number of orcs charging towards them did not seem to be thinning out. Instead, Aragorn thought as he slashed an orc, it seemed to be growing. 

                   Then suddenly, overcome by exhaustion, Aragorn collapsed to the earth, and his sword clanged to the ground loudly. Legolas gave a shout, and after releasing two arrows into the air, he rushed over to Aragorn and managed to get the man to his feet. "Aragorn! Get up! We must continue to fight!" Legolas continued to shoot arrows from his rapidly emptying quiver.

                   Aragorn scrambled to his mud-caked knees with renewed vigour, but before he got to his feet, something heavy lurched towards him. Aragorn's back hit the ground with a loud thud, and the small loose pebbles that littered the battleground dug deep into his back. Pain like a thousand daggers pierced Aragorn's back, and he gave a cry. But he soon realised that the agony he felt was not from his fall…

                   For a big fighting orc had crashed into Aragorn, and the orc had been holding a long deadly knife. And now the black handle of the knife jutted out from his stomach, and suddenly Aragorn felt an intense, excruciating pain in his chest. It felt as though something foreign had entered his body. Then a chill spread all over his body, from his chest down to his wobbly, unsteady legs and up to his dizzy head. 

                   The world went blurry.

                   Everything went black.

                   Legolas and Gimli watched in utter horror as Aragorn slumped to the ground.                               

**Author's Note: That's it for the second chapter! Aragorn fans pleeease do not get upset!!!! I'm an Aragorn fan myself, actually so I really can't bear to kill him. Ack! No hints! Hope you liked this chapter! And thanks to all who reviewed, you know who you are! (Not Voldemort.)  **


	3. Sanctuary

Ethereal Winter Sanctuary 

Disclaimer: The Lord of The Rings belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien. Not to me! ::Gasp:: ::Cries::

                        "ARAGORN!" Gimli roared as the ranger crumpled to the ground, his face contorted with intense pain. But before the dwarf could even reach the man, rough orc hands seized him off the ground, and out of the corner of his eye, Gimli saw Aragorn being lifted off the ground by a huge orc. 

                    Legolas fought furiously to defend himself and the two of his friends, though he knew it was no use. Soon _he _would be captured by Sauron's forces and they would perish in their valiant attempt to distract the Dark Lord while the Ringbearer continued with his quest to destroy the One Ring. Whirling around, Legolas caught sight of Gimli's face stricken with panic, and he shouted, "Gimli! Aragorn!" But Aragorn, unconscious and lying in the enemy's arms, could do nothing and neither could Gimli. 

                    Fearlessly Legolas sprang forward and whipped out an arrow from his quiver. Then sitting it in his bow with lightning speed, he aimed it at Gimli's captor. But before the elf could shoot, Gimli shouted, "Legolas! Behind you!" It was too late, however, and a searing flash of pain on his arm exploded like a gunshot throughout his whole body. Legolas felt someone take his arm and twist it excruciatingly. With failing strength Legolas drew out his long dagger, but even as he did so he felt his knees buckle. 

                    There came a shout- then a grey object whizzed through the air, and there came a loud shriek. Gimli's aim had been true, and his axe had sliced the orc's head off cleanly. Legolas felt the slimy grip on his arm loosen, and he sprang away from the dead creature. By now, the orcs carrying Aragorn and Gimli were running fast back to the Black Gates, and almost all the orcs were advancing towards Legolas. Legolas ran a few paces forward, ignoring the burning throb in his arm. "Gimli! Aragorn!" he called out hoarsely again. But by now they were almost at the Gates. Then Legolas heard it- faint at first, but still distinguishable. Gimli was shouting something. 

                    "Rivendell! Elrond! Help!" 

                    These three words seemed to fill Legolas with an invincible strength, and his arrows flew all across the field, and his long dagger flashed threateningly. At last the rest of the orcs had been wiped out by the elf, and he stood alone on the battlefield panting, gasping for air. 

                    From deep inside the bowels of Mordor there sounded a horn, a long, solitary note that held in the air. Legolas raised his head, as a rumbling sound grew louder. Then, turning his back to Mordor, he fled. Half stumbling, half staggering, Legolas made his way into the green forests that swallowed him up in all their verdant glory.      

                                                          ~*~

                    For days and weeks Legolas travelled through the thicket, until he came to the top of a mountain. Legolas' arm he bound up himself, and now as he stared out from the top of the mountain with one slender hand shading his bright Elvish eyes, Legolas could see blankets of white mist drifting serenely about the rocky mountains, and down below he could just make out the tips of Homely Houses in the secret valley of Rivendell. 

                    "At last, I have reached my destination," Legolas muttered to himself. He was weaker now, much weaker and did not have the strength left to make it down the steep and gravelly path along the mountain that led to Rivendell. It seemed eternity before Legolas found himself facing the first house in Rivendell. It was painted a cheery peachy pink, but no one seemed home. In fact, the streets of Rivendell were bare of elves, and the whole town seemed deserted. Somehow Legolas managed to stumble along the streets until he came to the Last Homely House. 

Then taking a deep shuddering breath, Legolas collapsed onto the marble floor in a sheltered pavilion that stood beside the home of Elrond. 

                                                          ~*~

                    Arwen stepped out of the Last Homely House, and strolled along the terraces of Rivendell, letting the gentle flowing of the water from the river soothe her frazzled nerves. The Elven Princess's sinuous blue mantle that clung to the curves of her body blew about in the breeze, and her dark hair blew about in the wind. 

                    And now Arwen's thoughts were not in Rivendell, but far away in Mordor. She feared for Aragorn, for his safety. What if he never made it back to Rivendell? Her thoughts ceased abruptly when a figure crumpled on the floor in the White Pavilion caught her eye. 

                    Arwen crept towards the figure. Now that she could see the pale tips of the figure's pointed ears peeking out from beneath a glorious mane of gold hair as brilliant as the sun, she was sure it was an elf. It seemed unconscious, lying on the stone floor of the pavilion without moving. Arwen advanced cautiously towards the elf, her head craned forward to catch any sign of life that stirred within the sleeping form. Suddenly a gust of wind blew through the valley, and Arwen a glimpse of the elf's eyelids flutter.

                    _It's alive! _Arwen shivered slightly in the cold and with her suspicions fading like the sunset, rushed towards the limp figure. Picking the elf up with amazing strength, Arwen stared down at the elf's face, and gave a gasp. Bright elven eyes framed with slightly curled lashes had fluttered open and were gazing at her with awe. A quick glance over the elf told Arwen that he was suffering from no wound, merely fatigue and exhaustion. "Do not worry- you will be saved," she reassured the elf gently. He nodded as if he trusted her with all his soul. His eyes took one last, piercing, lingering look at Arwen, then his body went limp and he fell back in her arms.

                    Arwen carried the elf back into Elrond's home, and the elf quickly ordered a new clean room to be prepared for the weary traveller. Then Elrond lifted the unconscious elf from Arwen, and carried him off. Arwen watched as Elrond and the elf disappeared into the hall, the image of those arresting eyes still fresh in her mind.    

                    Many hours passed, and the Elven princess spent her time sitting by the white marble benches along the lofty terraces where she could hear the now gentle trickling of water on stone. She stared off into space, thinking about the traveller's familiar face. Where had she seen him before? Then suddenly a stab of guilt penetrated into her heart, and Arwen tried hard to think of Aragorn instead. She tried to picture his silky brown hair and the strong curves of his face, but the image that kept coming into her mind was not that of Aragorn, but that of the elf she'd rescued.

                    Heart fluttering wildly, Arwen rose from the bench to see Elrond emerging from the Last Homely House. Arwen decided not to move, and waited for the older elf to make his way to his daughter. In no time he was by her side, but his eyes never rested on her. Finally Arwen could not contain herself, and she asked, "How is the elf?" Elrond's face relaxed into a soft smile, as if he knew she would ask him that. "He is resting, do not harass him with questions, he will answer them in his own time," he said, then turned and left with a swirl of his golden tunic. 

                    Arwen was left alone to ponder the words that her father had said to her. Why would she want to harass the elf with questions? Did she know the elf, then? If she did, that would explain why he was so familiar… but who _was _he? 

                    Curiosity tugged at the Elven princess, and finally she gave in to temptation. Turning around, Arwen headed back into the Last Homely House, the hem of her cloak swishing against the ground. Arwen managed to find the room in which the guest lay, and she opened the door carefully so as not to wake the sleeping elf.    

                    His back was to her, and Arwen gazed intently at the gold mane spread out along the pillow. His chest rose and fell evenly, and Arwen could tell that he was sleeping peacefully. The beautiful Elven princess furrowed her dark eyebrows as she racked her brains, trying to find out who this elf was. Just as she turned to go, the elf in the bed tossed under the covers, and she caught another glimpse of his face. 

                    It was fair, but worry and anxiety filled every part of it. Sweat trickled slowly down his forehead, and the elf whispered. His voice was filled with fear; such fear that it even made Arwen shiver. "Gimli…" he called. Arwen knew that evil dreams were dominating his sleep. But then the elf murmured something that made her breath catch in her throat. "Aragorn…" he called. 

~*~

                    _The world all around him was black…_

_                    It was endless…_

_                    It choked him…_

_                    No one in sight…_

_                    Only him…_

_                    Only him… _

_                    Was that a light? He struggled to sit up, tried to open his eyes. Yes, it was light! It was so bright. _

_                    Too bright…_

_                    Now something was blocking the light. It was a figure… short… with a long beard… Gimli! Was it Gimli? He tried to reach out a hand, but he could not touch the figure. "Gimli…" he tried calling out._

_                    But Gimli was gone now. There was a tall figure in his place. Someone with long hair… and a gleaming sword at his side… it was Aragorn. He tried to open his eyes, but they were stuck fast. The figure was slowly vanishing. "Aragorn…" he called out listlessly.   _

_                    Then something stayed. An equally tall figure, with the same pointed ears as him. Her dark hair billowed out behind her, and he felt a sense of calm settle over him like golden mist. He settled back down slowly, feeling tiredness creep back into his limbs. And he smiled, staring at the immensely beautiful face that beamed back at him. _

_                    "Save me…" he whispered._

                                                          ~*~

                    Mordor lay silent in the dawn of the day, and in a tall tower far from where the Dark Lord Sauron was, Aragorn awoke to feel the rays of the rising sun all over his skin. He was lying on a soft, scratchy mattress of straw, and there was a tremendous throbbing in his abdomen where the orc had stabbed him, and Aragorn felt the numbing ache in his limbs. The ranger glanced down, almost afraid, at himself. He found that the injured part of his body had been wrapped up tightly with a white bandage that was now soaked with blood. His neatly folded up shirt lay on the floor next to him. 

                    _What is going on? _Aragorn thought as he struggled to sit up, only to be forced back down by the excruciating pain that sliced through his body. Marvelling how he had somehow managed to survive the stab, Aragorn settled back down on the floor, breathing deeply. The air smelt stale here, as though it was air from a thousand years back, and Aragorn longed for the fresh air in the Elven city Rivendell. His eyes closed as he tried to recall the smell of Rivendell, the refreshing breezes tinged with the scent of pines…

                    Suddenly the ranger's eyes shot open, and memories of the battle at Mordor flooded back into his mind. He and his dwarf friend had been taken by Sauron's forces, and Legolas had escaped. But the last Aragorn had seen were the shocked faces of Gimli son of Gloin and Legolas of Mirkwood. 

                    A soft click from behind made Aragorn struggle again to sit up and look around, but the person who came up from behind the ranger was neither orc nor enemy. It was Gimli, Aragorn's dwarf friend. "Gimli… what brings you here?" Aragorn's voice came out as barely a whisper. He managed to prop himself gently up with his elbows on the rough straw, and gazed at Gimli. The dwarf scurried over to the man, and pushed a cracked ceramic bowl into his hands. "Drink this, Aragorn. The orcs made it…" 

                    Aragorn stared in disgust at the slimy black liquid that filled half of the bowl. It reeked, just like the barren wasteland of Mordor. "The orcs? Made… this?" he asked faintly. "Yes, I managed to trick their greedy minds into hiding us from Sauron and his Messenger," Gimli watched grimly as Aragorn brought the rim of the bowl to his lips. Before Aragorn even took a sip of it, Gimli shuddered and jumped up. "No… it's not safe," he muttered, took the bowl from Aragorn and cast it onto the wooden floor. The effect was immediate- both of them watched in shock as the black liquid ate up the wooden floor with a fizzle. 

                                                          ~*~

                    It was not quite dark yet. The two hobbits, Sam and Frodo, plodded along, on into the night. The hours passed by drearily, and at the first hint of grey light through the thick canopy of leaves, they felt their hearts lighten a little. 

                    Sam and Frodo rested for a minute before walking along again, and this time they came out of the forest and found themselves in the middle of a wide dirty road. Before Frodo could get Sam and himself off the road and back into the forest to hide, both of them heard the sound that they had been secretly dreading- the noisy sound of marching feet. Looking back they could see the menacing twinkle of torches and the occasional grunt of an orc. 

                    "Oh, Frodo Sir, where are we to hide?" Sam was desperate. The least both of them wanted was to get caught by orcs, and here they were, trapped with no possible means of escape. 

                    "There's no way, Sam! Only if we could get to that rock face in time, we could hide in the dark shadows," Frodo glanced around wildly. 

                    Both hobbits ran to the wall of rock and sat down beside each other under the shadow of the cliff. "Well, we can but wait and see," Sam muttered as he sank slowly down side the other hobbit. 

                    They did not have to wait long. The leading orcs came first, traipsing wearily with their heads down. Frodo held his breath. Perhaps they would pass the both of them by. After the leading orcs came others of smaller and different breeds, being unwillingly sent to fight the Dark Lord Sauron's wars. Rounding up the smaller orcs were two fierce _uruks _with black whips. They were the slave-drivers, cracking and lashing their whips to spur the orcs on when they grew tired and stumbled. On they came, red flames in the dark, growing swiftly.  

                    Sam bowed his head, hoping to hide it from the glare of the bright torches. Frodo followed his example, each trying hard not to look at the small army marching past. 

                    Suddenly one of the slave-drivers spied them, and he cracked his whip at them. "You there! Get up! Back in line!" he shouted, cracking the whip once again. Frodo and Sam, with pounding hearts, scrambled to their feet, grateful for the heaving orc-armour (which they had stolen from Shagrat's tower). 

                    "Come on, you slugs! This is no time for slouching!" the _uruk _called out once more. Frodo and Sam struggled to their feet, keeping bent. Limping like footsore soldiers, they made their way to the last line of small orcs. Behind that was the open road, and Sam gazed longingly back into the forest. "No! Not at the rear! Three files up! And stay there, or you'll get it when I come checking!" the slave-driver shouted, lashing his whip furiously. The hobbits scurried forward, and the company continued along at a brisk trot. 

It was hard enough for Sam, who was dead tired. But for Frodo, this was a tormenting nightmare. He strained to carry on walking, gritting his teeth furiously. The stench of the sweating orcs all around them was stifling, but the hobbits could do nothing about it. 

The slave-driver appeared only once after their encounter with him, but it was still even more terrible and exhausting. He flicked his whip between their legs, trying to make them trip and fall face down in the mud. But the hobbits bent their wills to draw their breath and keep their legs moving. 

"There now!" he jeered, still flicking his whip at their legs. "Where there's a whip, there's a will, my slugs! Hold up! Don't you know we're at war?"

They had gone a few miles before Frodo's strength began to fail. Every few paces he lurched and stumbled, and Sam tried to hold him up, afraid that the salve-driver might notice both of them. Sam himself knew that we could hardly take one step further, but his loyalty to Frodo kept him going. At any moment he knew that the end would come; his master would trip and fall, and be discovered, and all their hard efforts would be in vain. 

But unexpected relief came when the orcs caught sight of the gate to Udûn. Sam saw another company of orcs heading towards the gate too, and in the dark there was a great jostling and cursing as each troop tried to get first to the gate and the ending of their laborious march. The slave-drivers yelled and shouted, lashed and cracked their whips, but more scuffles broke out and orc blades were drawn. 

Sam grasped quickly at his chance and threw himself close to the ground, pulling Frodo down with him, out of the confusion that was created. Orcs fell over them, snarling and hissing with rage. On hands and knees the two hobbits crawled away from the fighting orcs, until at last they dropped over the further edge of the road, where they were absolutely sure no one would notice them. 

Sam and Frodo lay still for a while, trying to get their breath back. It was too dark to look for cover, but Sam felt that they should at least get away from the main road and beyond the reach of the watch-fires and torchlights on the wall. 

" Come on, Mr. Frodo! Just one more step… then you can rest. Come on, Sir," he rasped to the other hobbit. 

With bruised, bloodied and scratched hands, Frodo looked about as though in a stupor, raised himself and crawled for a few paces before dropping down onto the ground like a dead thing. Sam fell in place beside his master.    

It would be a while before the two hobbits woke up.

                                                          ~*~

                    _She was still there, right in front of him…_

_                    Her smile was mesmerizing…_

_                    Her eyes twinkled brightly in the dark…_

_                    She seemed to be shrouded in silver misty light…_

_                    "Save me…" he whispered once again. _

_                    All she did was smile…_

_                    Then the dark and light both faded, blending quietly into nothingness. _ 

                                                          ~*~    

                    Legolas of Mirkwood awoke to find himself lying on a soft bed. The first thing he did was to open his eyes, and when he did, he found himself face to face with the most stunning female elf he had ever seen. 

**Author's Note: Aahhh… ::sighs with relief:: another chapter is done! Hope you liked this one, and you see: Aragorn didn't die! Look out for the next chapter of Ethereal Winter, and thanks to everyone who reviewed!! ******


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